Short Story/Poetry – Page 3

Duddon, the River The Stepping-Stones

The struggling rill insensibly is grown
Into a brook of loud and stately march,
Crossed ever and anon by plank or arch;
And, for like use, lo! what might seem a zone
Chosen for ornament,—stone matched with stone
In studied symmetry, with interspace
For the clear waters to pursue their race
Without restraint. How swiftly have they flown,
Succeeding,—still succeeding! Here the child
Puts, when the high-swollen flood runs fierce and wild,
His budding courage to the proof; and here
Declining manhood learns to note the sly
And sure encroachments of infirmity,
Thinking how fast time runs, life’s end how near!

by William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

Stone

Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger’s tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.

From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.
Yet within, it must be cool and quiet
Even though a cow steps on it full weight,
Even though a child throws it in a river,
The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed
To the river bottom
Where the fishes come to knock on it
And listen.

I have seen sparks fly out
When two stones are rubbed.
So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;
Perhaps there is a moon shining
From somewhere, as though behind a hill—
Just enough light to make out
The strange writings, the star charts
On the inner walls.

by Charles Simic, 1938

Rest ye Bones

The first knuckle on the left hand sometimes gets stuck bent now and then. There’s no pain. Just it’s in the wrong place and needs a push back in. The big toe nail on the left foot has a perpetual purple mark from another knock growing out. Sometimes it takes a year. Once in a while, it’s gone but comes again after kicking pebbles. The eyes and ears want to retreat now. There’s always more to the story, but today, keep it to yourself.

After fifty years, things do get old. Thoreau was right, read a newspaper from ten years back and only the names have changed. Remember this, the loudest voice in the room is the one to avoid. Yes, it’s trying to attract attention and diversion all at once. Look at the noise, but don’t look at the source.

The family is gone. Relations are broken by boredom, incivility and greed. A sincere hello, how are you once, just once would have done so much. Instead, the lightest encounter is a dump of old, twisted thoughts. I used to miss you, but not anymore. All I did was replace a crumbling chimney full of bats.

A cat’s world can be quite small in the winter months. One cat fusses over where the other cat is. The other cat wants to be in the cats space all the time. Nothing cat A does is sacred. Cat B must know what’s happening. She irritates with her attempt to be friendly. She is lovely in her energy and pleases easily.

The thing to do is let go now. Georgia struts and challenges with her Aries energy. How to tune her out? How to tune them all out? The grasping crowd who bore to tears with the I, the me and the mine. Oh to walk in the woods again. Take a stroll down the paths cushioned by leaf and moss. The serenity of a light wind in the forest soothes the troubles away.

At fifty, I’ve almost figured out how to stop being with what wasn’t and be with what it is. Let go of the discomforts and walk softly. Let go of the voices inside. Enjoy the sleepless nights. Enjoy the moon shadow in the yard. The peach tree is dormant. Something crawls over the scraps pile down back. Okay, so I can do nothing and feel the emptiness inside. I can rest my old bones and say it is so.